


What Stars Teach Us

by 2Dsheep



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn, canonverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-03-29 11:30:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13926240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Dsheep/pseuds/2Dsheep
Summary: Keith feels like he’s never been able to see more than a few metres ahead, his future a road as uncertain as the past behind him, and getting accepted into the Garrison does nothing to clear that path. He doesn’t belong here, but there isn’t any option other than buckling down and pushing through.By the first weekend, he’s already managed to mess things up.They say you can learn from your mistakes, and Keith and Shiro could certainly learn a lot from one another.





	1. Chapter 1

There have been much better, much more successful nights than this one, but after such an awful week, there was never really much hope for this night in the first place. Keith takes a long drink, eyes falling shut as he drains the glass empty, misshapen chunks of ice knocking against his lips. He licks away the cold. 

Behind him, the empty space, free of the booths and tables dotted here and there, is used as a dance floor. There are more people than Keith had been expecting, but still both seats either side of him at the bar remain empty, and the closest thing to interaction this evening is with the bartender who doesn’t even look him in the eye when taking his order. The bartender is young, can’t be more than a few years older than him and nice to look at, but it is clear Keith won’t find himself in his bed later this night. At least he keeps the drinks coming quick. The music is at a volume that, while he has to raise his voice, Keith doesn’t have much trouble ordering, only having to lean forwards slightly to help make sure he is heard. A cocktail, the name of which Keith is certain he is pronouncing wrong, is placed in front of him. He drops coins into the offered palm, the exact amount, and picks up the tall glass, watching the colours swirl together like a liquid storm. The drink is shockingly sweet, exactly how he likes his alcohol, but this one is deceiving in its sweetness, disguising just how strong it really is. His body had begun tingling a heavy buzz after only his first glass. Promising himself that he will drink this fourth drink at a slower pace, he takes a small sip but keeps it in his hand. 

Where he rests his elbow on the bar is clean, but the ledge where his feet are placed is sticky, so he is careful to not let his jeans press against the underside of the bar as he slides his phone from the front pocket. It’s an old thing, and with no data plan, outside of buildings offering wi-fi it serves as nothing more than a clock with lights. Barely an hour has passed since he got here yet it feels like so much longer. Keith sighs with guiltless resignation and takes a little more than a sip of his drink. After all, who’s keeping check of promises made to himself? 

It’s warm in here. Too warm. Sat at the bar, Keith escapes the worst of it, keeping himself far away from the writhing swarm in the centre, but still he can feel sweat threatening to bead at his hairline. Instead of removing his jacket, however, he resolves to not stay here much longer, even if it means leaving here alone. Placing his glass down, mostly missing the coaster, Keith turns his body and casts his eyes to the crowd. 

There is a small handful of men that Keith has had his eye on throughout the evening, but he has had to swallow his disappointment more than a few times watching them pair themselves with the other men and women in the crowd who are much more eager in their intentions and in displaying what they have to offer. 

Keith doesn’t work like that. He had once been compared to a Venus flytrap, waiting still, silent, and giving away nothing, making a move only once he is sure that the prey is his. The thought makes him scowl. He simply wants something easier, someone that wants him, not someone he has to chase, otherwise what’s the point? 

Turning back to drink some more of his drink, he spots the man sat at the corner of the bar only a few seats away who looks like everything Keith could ever need for a night like this. 

His smiles come easy, and despite the sharp features of his face, his jawline, his nose and his strong eyebrows, when he does smile, even in this lighting Keith can see how his dark eyes soften. There are so many words that Keith can think of to describe him, and they all bounce around in his mind each time he sneaks a glance, but he keeps coming back to one - beautiful. 

Keith isn’t the only one to think so; he has seen the man chatting with a few women tonight, and there is no mystery to his popularity when he wears confidence like expensive cologne and a tank top so tight it takes a second glance to realise it hasn’t been painted on. 

Keith daren’t keep his eyes on the man for too long, but it is pretty obvious that the two of them are in this dingy bar-attempting-to-be-a-nightclub for the same reason. Unfortunately, there’s a hen party between the two of them, and Mr. Tank Top seems quite preoccupied with one of the bridesmaids. She laughs readily, hands quick to find place on his broad shoulders, his arms, playing with the tuft of hair that flicks out to the front. The man blushes when the girls chorus in unison about the cuteness of it.  Keith may roll his eyes, but he too has to admit that it is pretty damn cute.

Catching his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar, he grimaces. His hair, despite endless efforts trying to tame it, sticks up and out, his eyes are underlined by grey shadows, and beneath his jacket he knows his body is no match for the rounded curves of the bridesmaid, nor does it compare to the sculpted muscles Mr. Tank Top is completely, understandably eager to show. Keith can stand his ground in a fight, but his arms are pale and lean, a hidden strength that doesn’t show.

He’s hardly a catch even on a good night and Keith quickly feels out of his depth here. This was much easier back home, if home was what he could call it. Slim picking and desperation meant there was always someone looking for an easy fuck if ever it came to that. 

In this town the people still have aspirations, higher expectations of life fill the streets with an upbeat energy. Keith knew he would never fit in here. 

For a small while he watches the cute bartender manoeuvring behind the bar, slicing lemons, emptying and refilling the glass washer, and before he knows it his drink is empty, sweetened ice clanking against the glass. 

He is about ready to call it a night when he notices the group of women next to him gathering their things, all high-pitched giggles and unsteady steps as they declare their next destination. Unable to restrain his own curiosity, Keith stays in his seat and looks for Mr. Tank Top. To his surprise, while the hen party moves behind Keith and heads towards the door, the man doesn’t stand to join them, remaining in his seat at the corner of the bar. He waves off the group of girls with a charming smile, continuing until their sing-song, drunken laughter is muted by the door closing behind them, and then he lets out a sigh and swills the beer at the bottom of his glass.

Well that was unexpected. Keith was sure the guy was definitely in with a shot there. 

What is more unexpected, however, is that Keith feels the need to say something to him.  
It’s a miserable night at the end of an even worse week; attempting to console a stranger can’t make things much worse.

But he does not like to initiate conversation. Not in normal social situations and especially not when all he wants out of the interaction is a night which becomes nothing by morning. 

It would probably be no task at all to think of a hundred reasons why, but Keith knows that first and foremost he fears rejection. It is something learned, like the child once bitten who refuses to go near any other dog. Keith briefly wonders when it was he learned his fear, but he thinks it must be a memory too early recall. And then over the years it has been a lesson he has had to learn again and again.

Even so, whether he has drunk more than he thought, or there is some twisted relaxation that comes from knowing he has absolutely no shot with a guy like that, he feels like he has to speak to him. Keith does his best to ignore the tugging sensation in his gut, but it doesn’t help that from the corner of his eye, Keith is almost certain that he can see the man looking over at him. 

Nervous adrenaline tickles at the base of his throat, makes his chest feel light, and the alcohol he has drunk over the course of the hour or so he has been here has made his resistance weak, and any attempt to fight off the drunkard within is just futile. He convinces himself that if he goes in without expectation, there can’t be any hurt.

Keith speaks out, but his voice is lost in the music, the man sat just a little too far away for the words to reach. He takes a breath and tries again with a shout. 

“Hey!”

Overestimating the volume of the room and underestimating that of his own voice, he ends up startling the man, having him look up in alarm. Shit. He is going to think he is crazy, no doubt, but he continues to look over at him as if waiting for Keith to continue. 

After a swallow he does so, “Tough night, isn’t it?”

The man nods with pursed lips, which quickly break into a smile when he offers a loose shrug. He is so damn adorable.

After what looks like a moment of consideration, the man stands up, leaves his empty glass, and rounds the bar, stopping next to Keith.

“Is it alright if I take a seat?”

Keith doesn't know if he has ever been attracted to a voice before, but he knows for sure that this man’s voice is something that could soothe even the most troubled person’s nightmares. It is velvet smooth, deep, but with a gentleness that Keith couldn’t have expected at all. This man next to him is the finest specimen in the room all night, and Keith thinks he can stay a little while longer.

Catching himself deep in his thoughts and taking too long to respond, Keith eventually gives the man the okay to sit beside him, noticing as he does so that his cheeks and neck are spattered with a mild pink blush. 

After a few awkward moments of silence between them, Keith finally speaks. 

“Sorry that bridesmaid number three got away from you.”

It’s a stupid moment but Keith has never performed well in social situations. There is a reason he abstains from initiating conversations, but while he is inwardly kicking himself, the man gives a defeated chuckle.

“One of her friends let slip that she has a boyfriend,” he says, words light with humour though he gives a small tut before adding, “That isn’t something I want to be getting involved in.”

The bartender knocks a cocktail mixer to the ground, and even through the music, it is loud. Keith pauses to glance as subtly as he can manage as the bartender bends over to retrieve it, but from the corner of his eye, he notices Mr. Tank Top do the same, though he seems much less discreet with his interest. 

This comes as a pleasant surprise for Keith, and he consciously sits up straighter, removing as much sulk from his face as possible. He is pretty sure that his chances of scoring with a man so damn fine is still next to zero, but he is desperate. Keith can only hope this guy is too. 

“Hey, uh. Let me get you a drink” Keith says, digging his wallet from his back pocket a little too eagerly but it seems to go unnoticed. “What’re you having? Another beer?” 

The man pauses, as if contemplating his answer. “Actually, I’ll have what you’ve been drinking. It looked pretty good.”

“Ah, so you were watching me then?” 

It comes so naturally, so smooth, and it still catches Keith off guard when he can deliver these lines. What a difference a few cocktails make. It seems to be able to catch the other man by surprise too. He gives a smile, not answering, but Keith is certain that, even in this light, he can see the blush on his cheeks deepen. 

Keith orders and pays for the drinks, both of them sitting in an only somewhat awkward silence until the bartender places two glasses in front of them. 

“Cheers,” Keith says, offering his glass forwards, a small smile when the glasses clink together. “I’m Keith, by the way.”

“Keith,” the man repeats, eyes sweeping down not too subtly. He sure knows what he wants tonight. Keith might be the final choice after at least three unsuccessful attempts that he has seen for this guy tonight, but he figures at this point he is more than willing to be someone’s last resort.

“My name is...call me Taka.”

Keith is in high spirits, he can feel how relaxed his face and body is, the warm buzz he can feel all the way from his finger tips to his toes, no doubt a side effect of the four, or was it five, cocktails in his system.

The music quietens some, still loud enough to have to speak up, but Keith can hear the thoughts in his own head, though they're easy enough to ignore when he can distract himself with this man before him. The swollen crowd in the open space that serves as a dance floor peters out, some crowding around the bar, others heading out the door. Keith leans back hoping to catch a touch of the outside breeze but he feels nothing, the thick air seemingly impenetrable. 

“You come here often?” Taka asks, resting his elbow on the bar, his attention entirely on Keith.

“No, not really. You?”

“I can’t say that I come into this part of town much at all.”

Keith smiles. So far, so good. This is all a game, and as they each take a move he feels the pieces moving towards winning positions. 

If only someone would turn on the damn AC. Keith takes a long swig of his drink in attempt to cool down, but the ice cubes have already started losing the battle to the warmth, mere flakes of cold bobbing on the surface. Conceding defeat, he relents and shrugs off his jacket. Underneath he wears a plain black t-shirt. It is usually a slim fit, but the damp heat has it sticking to his skin, the material clinging to his figure. He thinks he possibly catches Taka’s mouth part. He definitely catches him turn away with a small smile, hiding it in a swig of his drink.

Keith almost smiles with him. Instead he reaches once more for his glass and notices he is already half way through while Taka has barely drunk an inch of his own. So much for taking it slow. 

“Not a fan of my drink choice?” Keith probes with a slight smirk.

“No, no, this drink is great,” he replies even as he places the glass down, “It’s just I’ve got to drink this slowly. This is my fourth drink tonight and it is going straight to my head.”

“You know, for a guy so big, you sure are a lightweight”

“Got my Asian genes to blame for that. I really don’t handle alcohol well.”

And he really doesn’t, by the looks of it. With each sip he takes, the pink of his cheeks deepens and it can’t be much longer until the shade blossoms red. 

“So, uh, what Asian are you?”

Taka peers straight at Keith. “Did you just ask me what Asian I am?” His face creases, seemingly on the verge of an outburst of emotion and Keith can’t tell if it is laughter or anger. 

“Yeah. Shit, I’m sorry I just don’t think before- “

Taka bursts into laughter, patting Keith on the shoulder. Even through his t-shirt he can feel just how warm his hands are. “No, it’s fine” Taka says with a slight hiccup, his laughter quietening to a light chuckle. “It’s just how you phrased it. I’m Japanese.” 

Keith feels relieved, but he can’t decide whether or not it’s appropriate to ask more questions and he sure as hell doesn’t want to scare off his seemingly only chance to get laid tonight. This is the part of the night he hates the most, struggling to maintain a conversation and do a good enough job to convince the other person he is worth their time.  

So instead, he gives a small nod, sips his drinks and says, “That’s cool.’

Seduction is an art form that Keith has never quite prospered in. The only way he knows to work is relying on both individuals having enough alcohol to quieten consciences. The steady buildup of flirting woven into casual conversation is a craft that unravels in fingers as clumsy as his. It should be obvious how to continue, but Keith falls back on a satisfied hum to acknowledge the information, and simply hope that Taka desires to continue. 

“So what do you do, Keith?” 

And it appears he does. His relief, however, is short lived. As should be expected, he wants to ask personal questions. He seems the type to do so, to want to talk, to get to know each other a little bit, to know the man he’s imagining in his sheets. 

“I’m a grad student, over at uh-” Shit. He can’t remember the name of the university. Instead he mumbles, points a finger in a vague direction and continues, “Classes have just started. Needed a night out before I have to knuckle down.”

“Grad student, that would make you...?”

“I’m 21. I’ll be 22 in October.”

“And what are you studying?”

This guy is asking too many questions, and it is making Keith feel restless. Even outside of this sort of situation, Keith has never enjoyed talking about himself. Social occasions mirror obstacle courses, and being unable to keep his feet from the ground has him slipping in awkwardness. Somehow he has managed to navigate this far, but the alcohol and the heat are wearing him down. If he talks too much, something is bound to slip out. 

“Come on, I came out for a night away from my studies” Keith says with a wave of his hand, a gulp of his drink quickly following. He is nearly at the bottom, and Taka has almost caught up, even his ears are slightly pink now. 

“So, erm. How about you?” He supposes that is the right thing to do. “Tell me about yourself.”

Taka takes a sip of his own drink, his eyes never leaving Keith’s.

“There really isn’t much to tell,” he says with a light shrug and an even lighter smile, “I’m 22, I live in the area.” The drink seems to have now reached his tongue, words slippery as they pass his lips. “I’m an...I work with..uh...planes.”

“Planes, you mean you fly-“

“No, no,” Taka interrupts with a wave of his hand, eyes shut as he tries to think. Keith has noticed him getting more and more inebriated but this wave seems to have struck him out of nowhere, and it appears Taka notices too. He puts his drink down, barely a sip left, and with what looks like a lot of concentration, he continues. 

“I work in the airport.”

As far as Keith can recall, the nearest airport to here is at least an hour’s drive. Where does he commute from? Why is he here tonight? He pushes away his thoughts; he doesn’t care about all that, or at least he can’t let himself do so. 

“Is there a lot of heavy lifting involved?” It is so stupid, and Keith is sure the blush on his cheeks is even brighter than Taka’s if the heat pulsing from them is anything to go by, but perhaps this will push things where Keith needs them to go. 

However, he only receives a blank look in response. 

“Y’know...because-” Keith leans forwards, ignores all the objections born from shame and places his hand on Taka’s bicep, barely holding back a pleased hum as his fingers fail to wrap around even half of it. The hum instead escapes as a gasp when Taka tenses his muscles, a pleasing twist in his gut as Keith feels the solid strength beneath his hand. 

“Okay. Wow.”

Keith has to remind himself to let go, and when he does, Taka runs his hand through his hair with a shy smile and his eyes looking anywhere but at Keith. It’s cute, unbearably so. 

“I probably shouldn’t have done that,” Keith says with a sigh but a smug smirk on his lips, “Now I am stuck imagining what the rest of you looks like.”

Nothing could have prepared Keith for the intensity of the look Taka gives him, nor the sight of him softly biting his lower lip.

“Well, if you want, you don’t have to just leave it to your imagination.”

The look they share is fierce and all of a sudden the warmth of the bar is nothing to the heat between them. The way Taka’s eyes darken, Keith is convinced he will be taken right then and there, but before he can even blink, the dark eyes soften and his face crumples into an embarrassed grin.

“I am definitely drunk.”

The way he laughs through his words has Keith hooked, like pins in his flesh. There is something about him, and Keith can’t quite get his thoughts together to figure out what it is, can’t quite bring himself to free himself, not ready to let himself bleed just yet. He downs the last of his drink, blanching his mind and lets dizzying giddiness colour his thoughts instead. 

“If you don’t handle alcohol well, why do you keep drinking?” Keith asks, tempted to laugh himself.

“What else am I supposed to do when such a gorgeous man offers to buy me a drink?”

It isn’t often that Keith finds himself struck speechless by a few simple words, but despite the easy flirting and the interest so obviously written on each of their faces, a line delivered so smooth was certainly something he hadn’t expected. Come to think of it, this is possibly the first time he’s been called gorgeous. He has been called many things, the many insults and compliments slipping from drunken tongues all swirl together in his mind, but right at this moment he is able to convince himself that tonight’s was the most genuine. He wonders how long he will be able to believe it for. 

“So Taka-“

“Call me Shiro.”

“What?”

“Taka…is what my parents call me.”

“They why did you-“

“I…I don’t know” he chuckles, “I can’t remember.”

“It’s nice,” Keith admits, standing up from the stool. He repeats the name under his breath, “It suits you.”

Keith wants to kiss him. He wants Shiro to hold him. He wants his body pressed against him. This night is so going so well and Keith is desperate for it to end. The alcohol in his system acts as a cheerleader, chanting its encouragement from the back of his mind. Not quite sure on what he plans to do, Keith leans forward, but as he makes a small step he notices that Shiro isn’t looking at him, but over his shoulder. He follows the path of his gaze, turning not at all subtly, to see a small group looking over at them.

Even with both Keith and Shiro looking at them, they don’t turn away. It is dark and Keith struggles to read them, but he thinks he sees excitement, perhaps recognition on their faces. Anger bubbles in his chest but before it can grow Shiro places a hand on his shoulder. 

“How about we head out of here?”

He says it with such calm, that Keith feels any sense of annoyance dissipate, and he replies with a small nod.

“I need to…uh…the bathroom. Meet you outside?”

Without even glancing at that group of people, Keith grabs his jacket from the stool and heads towards the door, giving a sigh of relief as he steps outside. The air is still warm, but so much cooler than inside the bar. There are a few small huddles of people standing around the door so Keith walks a short distance away, the ground only slightly unsteady beneath his feet, and leans against the building next to the bar, the brick pleasantly cool through his shirt. 

Keith waits for five minutes or so before Shiro steps out, a navy blazer hooked over his arm, smiling as his eyes land on Keith, along with a small look of relief as if he expected him to not be there. 

“I’m so glad to be out of there,” he says as he stops in front Keith, “It was so warm.” 

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

They are stood less than a metre from one another, but it feels much too far a distance. As if Shiro can read his thoughts, he takes a step closer, be it a careful one, slow, and only when Keith takes his hand and draws him forward does he close the gap, bodies now mere inches away, his thumb stroking Keith’s cheek.

“I really want to kiss you.”

“I was really hoping you’d want a lot more than that.”

Shiro’s eyes flash with a hint of surprise, but Keith can see the burning desire in them, and can’t help but grin. 

“But okay. A kiss is a good place to start.” 

He lets Shiro lead, waiting with his back still pressed against the wall for Shiro’s lips to reach his own. He starts gentle. It’s nothing electric, but Keith is already keen, pleased that his lips were as soft as they looked. Just as the kiss begins to deepen, someone drops either a glass or a bottle, the sound jarring the two of them, and Shiro pulls back, an almost bashful look on his face as if he were caught doing something he shouldn’t. There is no hiding the look of eagerness to continue, however. 

“And just as it was getting good,” Keith remarks, adding a sigh for emphasis.

Shiro leans forward again to continue where they stopped but Keith stops him with a hand on his chest. “I was thinking…we could continue somewhere else?” Even as he says it he knows it sounds seductive, but his heart races faster with each word and it takes overwhelming effort to battle down the heat that threatens to spread over his cheeks. He wishes he’d knocked back another drink, or perhaps a few shots to drown all the shyness he has left, but Shiro doesn’t seem to notice and the look in his eyes as he agrees is like a rush of alcohol in itself.

“So, your place or mine?”

Keith’s breath catches in his throat as he rushes to answer. 

“Well, I actually live out of state.”

As soon as he says it he wants to bite off his own tongue. There was no need to say anything more than he’d prefer to go to Shiro’s, but it doesn’t matter anyway, not when Shiro cocks his head in confusion, making Keith feel weak at the knees. How can a man be so attractive and so adorable at the same time? He fits perfectly between the lines of sexy and cute, and can seemingly jump between the two without so much as a transition period. It takes a moment or two for Keith to realise he is staring, and he quickly grasps for an explanation.

“I mean, I’m with my parents until Monday. When I’ll be taking everything up to the university.”

“Oh, I thought…assumed you were at the local university.”

“Well, I never actually said that.” 

Keith can’t remember if that’s true or not, and the pause that follows has dread furling in his stomach, but it is all remedied by smile and another kiss. 

“I guess that answers my question then.” 

Keith doesn’t know anything of the route they take. They could have taken five minutes, they could have been walking for half an hour, he is only aware of heat of Shiro’s hand in his and the desperate buzz coursing through him. It is only when he hears the rustling of keys that he realises they have made it to what he assumes is Shiro’s apartment. Keith can’t help but giggle as he watches the several attempts it takes to slot the right key into the hole. There is a turn, a click, an ungraceful stumble through the door, and in an instant lips find his. Keith is vaguely aware that the door remains open on his left, but then there are hands slipping under his shirt and he can’t find it in himself to care. Keith hooks his fingers behind Shiro’s belt and tugs forward. The gasp that escapes as their hips come together is simply delectable but Keith chases the kiss once more, eager for his breath to be stolen once more.

A less than subtle roll of his hips has Shiro all but slamming the door shut and pulling Keith away from the wall, though he is pressed into a few more before they finally make their way into the bedroom. 

The desperate pace, however, comes to an unexpected pause as Shiro stops in the doorway, his fingers light in Keith’s hands, a nervous smile on his face.

“I’ve never done something like this.”

“You have had sex before?”

Shiro gives a groan that is entirely embarrassment, “Of course I have.”

Well, that is certainly a relief. 

“I mean, I’ve never taken home someone I’ve just met.”

There really is something about him, and Keith can’t quite put his finger on it. He can’t decide if he wants to be even closer, or if he is itching to run. It is like a pointed stab of betrayal when he catches himself asking questions about Shiro, as if he wants to know more about him, as if this feeling is hinting at something special.

That isn’t what this night is about. 

“Do you want to stop?” Keith offers, even as he runs his fingers down Shiro’s chest, resting on the button of his jeans, though he stops there and waits.

Shiro doesn’t give an answer, he simply moves even closer. His hands find Keith’s waist as he presses his lips against his neck, soft at first but within moments his kisses become desperate, as if he were a man starved.

This is what the night is about. Keith repeats it in his mind, like a mantra, to keep him grounded. This is about two people coming together to satisfy a need. A desperate effort for Keith to fill that something which is missing.

“It’s easy. You just do whatever you want with me.”

He feels more worthless by the second but then Shiro’s hands are tight around his hips and it feels so good and that’s all that matters. Keith is dizzy with lust and drink and by the way Shiro staggers as he pulls them both onto the bed, it is obvious he’s in a similar state. 

It is warm in the apartment, perhaps even warmer than the bar. It certainly feels so, but it could just be that they are finally in the bedroom and Keith is eager to remove the layers between them. He wastes no time in removing the tank top, having been wanting to see what was underneath all night, and it is everything he imagined and more. It was unfair really, and the sheer attraction that he feels only just overrides the self-doubt and embarrassment of his own body in comparison, but Keith can do nothing but stare, and perhaps allow himself to run his hand down Shiro’s torso, fingers tracing along sculptured muscles as if admiring a piece of art, and this man really is.  Keith can’t even bring himself to be angry at the smug grin creeping on the guy’s face. Not that he has to look at it for long. Shiro moves forward to kiss him, missing and catching the corner of his lips. Turning his face towards him, Keith lures him in for more. 

He is keenly aware that none of this is moving fast enough for him, but Keith decidedly refuses to move any further until every piece of clothing has been taken off of Shiro; he has a body that is meant to be seen. He can’t figure out if it is the drink or desperation that makes each of their movements clumsy, but he really can’t figure out how to unfasten Shiro’s belt. A task which Shiro does not make any easier, insistent as he is on stealing his attention with each and every kiss. After a short time, Shiro either finally understands what Keith is trying to do with his hands, or he too is feeling desperate to move this along, and he moves off the bed to unclasp his belt. 

Patience has never been an attribute of Keith’s, so as soon as he has space he peels off his t-shirt and starts to wrestle with his own belt. His fingers are uncoordinated and keep slipping but finally he unfastens the damn thing. Just as he starts to fight with the button on his jeans however, his concentration is snatched away. 

Shiro seems to be in no mood to waste time either, Keith thinks as he looks up, unable to tear his eyes away. Though even if he could he wouldn’t want to. While he was struggling with his own trousers, Shiro had stripped off all of his own clothes and is stood at the end of the bed completely naked, looking like utter perfection even in this low light. 

“Are you even real?”

In good nature, Shiro laughs and, surprising himself, Keith finds himself laughing too. It is cut short however, silenced by a fierce blush that blossoms when he sees Shiro smiling, his eyes ever so soft as they gaze down at him. For a moment, Keith almost feels like something cherished, and he doesn’t know if he can take any more looks like that.

This is just a fragment of make-believe, and Keith can’t afford to allow himself to indulge. As soon as he returns to the bed, Keith puts his hand behind Shiro’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss, moaning low as the skin of their chests meet. He can taste the sweet liquor on Shiro’s tongue, can smell the smooth and rich cologne as he moves his lips onto his neck. 

A lot can be learned about a person in such moments, when stripped to basic instincts, seeking pleasure and release. Keith learns that Shiro likes being in control, and is clearly used to it. Giving in is an easy decision to make. 

His jeans are thrown somewhere behind them, and Keith wonders if he will be able to find them later, but he is given very little time to think. Shiro is once more above him in an instant, his palm pressing against him, a dizzying amount of pressure that has Keith groaning low in his throat, unable to stop his hips from bucking up. 

“Someone’s eager.”

Pulling Shiro forward and biting not-so-gently at his neck, Keith retorts, “Someone’s just slow.”

He also learns that Shiro reacts to being taunted. 

In less than a beat Shiro pulls away and with unsteady movements climbs off the bed, pauses to right himself and goes to rifle through a bag in the corner of the room. There is only the light from the streets to illuminate the room, but that is enough for Keith get a good view of Shiro from behind, though not for long. He comes back to the bad with a condom and a bottle of lube in hand, and Keith settles on his back, opening his legs, to allow Shiro to kneel between them.

“Like this is okay?”

Keith nods. “Yeah.” 

Despite the taunts, Shiro works him open slow, meticulous to the point Keith wants to complain but he makes it feel so good that he lets it slide. It’s evidently clear that this is Shiro’s first one-night stand, he is too gentle, too considerate and Keith doesn’t know how to cope with it all.

Just before it becomes too much, however, he pulls back, and looks at Keith in a way that suggests he might say something. Keith tells him to get a move on before he even has the chance to open his mouth, but instantly wonders if he shouldn’t have when Shiro does what he’s told with a small smile that speaks only of resignation.

It isn’t something he allows himself to think too much on however because the main event is finally about to begin. Keith waits, his breathing shallow but not all that steady as he watches Shiro ready himself. There is a delicate pause once they are both in position, where everything seems so still, the air around them so thick yet fragile as if one small move might cause it to crumble, but it passes almost as quickly as it came. Shiro says something which Keith doesn’t catch, words lost in heated gasps as Shiro pushes in. 

It doesn’t take long to find a rhythm that suits them both. It isn’t perfect, but how could it be? Shiro barely knows the first thing about him, never mind how to move to make him ‘see stars’ as he’d heard other people experience, but this will do, is more than enough for a night like this. Before too long the pace becomes more desperate, the movements rougher, performed with one goal in mind. Shiro’s hands are clumsy with drink, but each and every movement is strong, and with purpose, just how Keith wants it, needs it. 

A noise from above pulls away Keith’s attention, possibly the sound of a chair scraping along the floorboards. It is so easy to forget in these sorts of moments that other people exist, continuing with their lives. Though Keith supposes it is one of the reasons he seeks them out. 

He isn’t given much more time to ponder when Shiro grabs the back of his thigh and pushes forward and all of a sudden he is so much deeper, pressing in at such an angle that Keith can’t think of anything other than how good this feels. Despite wishing that the hand on his thigh were gripping firmer, tight enough to bruise, or that the lips against his neck would be replaced with teeth, Keith feels the familiar tightening in his gut.

The impossibly cute lock of hair is hanging in front of Shiro’s face, and Keith wants to tug it back, or perhaps brush it aside. Instead, he grasps the pillow beneath his head just to do something with his spare hand, before he does something he’ll regret.

“You’re close?”

It takes all of Keith’s strength to not curse out loud when Shiro slows down as he asks. Keith feels close to dying, but he simply bites his lips and nods.

“What…what do you need?”

Goddamnit. Keith groans and it’s not from the pleasure. He has had enough of words. He reaches a hand between them, rocks his hips to meet Shiro with every thrust, and soon enough it seems Shiro is finished with his words too. Their breaths seem to chase each other’s, a sugary heat in a crash of lips and teeth. Although Keith fights it at first, he surrenders himself to the sensation. 

Keith can feel the urgency and need in how Shiro moves, how his hands cling to his hips, teeth a frustrating temptation as they graze far too gentle along his collar bone, warm puffs of air slipping along the sweat clinging to his skin. 

It is so, so warm in here. 

One of Shiro’s hands comes to rest besides Keith’s head and he can hear the pull of fabric as he clutches the pillow tight in his fingers. 

Keith moves his own hand quicker, desperately chasing the climax he feels building alongside each snap of Shiro’s hips. In times like these, there is nothing more vital than that rush. 

Shiro’s hips snap forwards, and with a low groan presses deep and stutters with some final shallow thrusts.  Keith hears his own name whispered against his ear, breathless and achingly soft, and it becomes so easy to let go. Every sense bursts to life, redefining all they are in that moment until they are nothing but deep breaths and quivering limbs, overwhelmed by the sweet ache of release. Shiro holds him, tight as if he could never let go, and just for a fragile, perfect moment, Keith feels as he is the most important person to someone, in a distorted snapshot of a time where he matters. 

But it passes all too quickly. Shiro pulls away, and Keith feels the aching of his body that isn’t sweet at all. He struggles to catch his breath, all limbs a heavy weight on the sheets bunched up beneath him. The plummeting crash is something he thinks he’ll never get used to.

Keith flinches as Shiro starts to pull away from him, his body still so sensitive. Soft, lazy kisses run down his throat, possibly as an apology, as Shiro eases out, much slower this time. He pushes off of him and sits up, his breathing heavy and eyes closed, but the fleeting moment of bliss on his face fades, giving way to a stilted satisfaction that barely holds. When Shiro opens his eyes, the look he gives Keith, and surely the one he receives too, is as if they don’t recognise one another. And Keith really thinks he doesn’t. Shiro seems different already, there are no more easy smiles and his eyes seem dull. He looks tired. 

For a moment he thinks Shiro might say something, but he just closes his eyes once more and takes a breath before moving away from Keith, his movements unsteady. Keith had almost forgotten that they had been drinking, but as he pushes up onto his elbows, he feels the dizzying slush in his head too, weighing down his eyelids. Unsure of whether this time he wanted to hear what Shiro had to say, Keith accepts the silence and simply watches as Shiro removes the condom, ties it and throws it into a bin to the side of the bed.

He should clean himself up and he should leave, but he’s exhausted. Without meaning to, without even remembering lying back down, Keith closes his eyes, thoughts of the shit week before and no doubt the shit weeks to come creep into his mind. The more he tries to will himself to move, the more the images in his mind bleed into darkness, his consciousness ebbing into a shadowy blur. He vaguely recognises a thin sheet being pulled over him before he loses his battle to sleep. 

Keith sits fully upright far too quickly, groaning as a dizzying pain pounds in between his temples. He doesn’t know if the nausea woke him or the startled wakening brought upon the nausea, but all he wants to do is lie back down and sleep. However, after a few more seconds of rapid blinking and sensing a body next to his, Keith remembers how he spent his evening and where he ended up. It is dark in the room, only the soft orange glow of the streetlights trickling through a crack in the blinds. If the sun is yet to rise it must still be before 5am. Considering how tired he feels, he could have been asleep only minutes, but the air feels different, stale and much cooler. 

As the seconds pass, Keith becomes more and more aware of his body, the stickiness of his skin, the tenderness in his hips, and more urgently his bladder aching to burst, but he’d rather go on the side of the building than stumbling around looking for the bathroom and risk waking this guy up. 

Even in this situation, Keith deeply considers resting his head on the pillow once more, anything to alleviate the heaviness of his body, but there is no way of knowing how long he will sleep, and he wants to be long gone by the time the other guy wakes up. Peeling the sheets from his body, and hoping that the man besides him is a heavy sleeper, he slides his legs from the bed and scans the room to plan his next move, deciding the best way to sneak out. Apart from sheets and pillows spilling from the bed and the clothes littered about the floor or hanging from various pieces of furniture, the room is pristine, something he didn’t care to notice as they stumbled in earlier this evening. There doesn’t seem to be anything personal, nothing that Keith can recognise as a sentimental item. It is much more like a hotel room, and he can only think it a little odd, or perhaps sad. 

Keeping his eyes fixed on the man’s back and, making sure he doesn’t stir, he stands up from the bed, ignoring the protests that scream from every inch of his body, knowing he can’t miss this chance to slip away.

Keith treads about the room recovering each discarded item of clothing, careful not to let his belt jingle as he picks up his jeans from where they hang on the arm of the chair in the corner. Once he has everything in his arms, including his phone and wallet from the bedside though he has no memory of removing them from his jeans, he looks back at the man lying in the bed. What was his name again? Taku? Taka. That sounds almost familiar. But, there was something else.

He murmurs, and Keith doesn’t dare move an inch, doesn't allow himself a breath as he watches the man roll on to his back, the sheets slipping from his upper body. Keith counts to ten, allows his lungs a small taste of oxygen, and counts once more before relaxing, but even then he can’t take his eyes off Mr. Tank Top. Though he supposes he can’t be called that in this moment, not when he is completely stripped of his clothes, his modesty barely concealed by the thin sheet pooling over his hips. 

The light from the window skims over his chest which rises and falls in a slow, even rhythm until he gives a gentle snore, and then it continues as before. His lips are ever so slightly parted, and Keith remembers just how soft they were against his skin only hours ago. He shakes away the thought and ignores the detestable part of him that is desperate to crawl back beside him. Instead he tiptoes out into the hall, tugs his clothes on at a pace that is both as quick and quiet as possible, and exits, ever so careful as he shuts the door, holding his breath until he hears the click of the latch. 

The absence of sound and the cool breeze is almost eerie, and Keith shakes away a shiver as he takes a left down the road, hoping for some luck that he doesn’t have too far to walk. Dragging his feet along the pavement he walks a few steps and stops. An orange street light above him flickers. He turns back the other way, only mostly sure that he should have taken a right out of the apartment.

It is a lonely hour to be walking the streets.


	2. Chapter 2

Keith jolts up from bed as soon as the first ping of his alarm strikes the air, but still there are a few seconds of fumbling around as he tries to disable it. He hasn’t slept this deeply in a long time. Since creeping back into his room the early hours of Sunday morning, Keith has left his covers no more than four times, gulping down as much water as he could manage and subsequently scuttling to the bathroom a short while later to relieve his bladder, and he only has vague snippets of doing that. Sunday is a tattered film reel in his mind, consisting of probably less than ten whole minutes of conscious thought. 

But it’s now Monday morning, and so, despite the heaviness of his head and the weakness of his limbs, Keith pushes himself off the bed. It feels awful to open his eyes and even worse to stand, yet he can’t hold back the satisfied groan that breaks from his throat as he stretches. It’s only seven in the morning but even through the blinds he can see how bright the sky is today. He can only hope that it isn’t too warm outside, summer seems unending this far south. This room has been his for barely a week but Keith is already certain that he is going to have to do something with those blinds. Perhaps he can pin up a dark sheet to try and keep the sun hidden for just a little longer. He doesn’t know what the Dorm Warden would have to say about sticking things up, but Keith has always found it easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. 

The water is cold as it drizzles over his shoulders, something that Keith has failed to remember every time he has used this shower so far. Pressing himself against the wall as far away from the arctic spray as he can, he considers sticking up a note on his mirror reminding him to wait a few minutes before stepping under the water, but it’s not like he pays much attention to anything before his morning shower and coffee. As he combs his fingers through his hair, soapy lather running down his back, he wonders whether he will ever get used to this place. 

The worst of the grogginess is washed down the drain along with the clamminess that comes with so many hours in bed, but even after drying his body and throwing on his uniform he is surprised by how unawake he feels. 

“Am I still hungover?” he grumbles as he reaches for some painkillers from the shelf in the bathroom. He cringes as he thinks of how everyone is going to see what a mess he is. Looking in the mirror, it is painfully obvious that he isn’t in top condition. His face is pale, the whiteness only accentuating the shadows beneath his eyes which look more like fading bruises, and despite running a brush through it, his hair rebels against him, sticking whichever way it desires. Perhaps he should cut it short. It’s not the first time he’s considered it, and it won’t be the last time he’ll decide not to. 

The clock at his bedside tells Keith that it is already quarter to eight, giving him a whole fifteen minutes to leave and get to class, Flight Theory, if he remembers correctly. He should check the timetable that has been sitting in his bag since Friday afternoon, but right now there are more important things to consider. Even if he walks slow he can make it there in ten minutes, but the need for his morning coffee is strong and he doesn’t even consider skipping it. Keith reckons he would just about stoop to murder for a taste of some coffee fresh from a machine. He doesn't pretend to know a lot about coffee, but to this day he still thinks about the fancy coffee machine in one of the foster homes he was placed. Until then coffee had merely been something to wake him in a morning, something to drink quickly without bothering to appreciate the taste. On mornings like this he longs for a coffee brewed from that awfully loud machine, served in one of those fancy glass cups with steel handles. But instant granules in a chipped mug will just have to suffice this morning. 

After initially failing to flick the kettle switch properly puts him two minutes behind his allotted time so he won’t have to jog, in his haste to make up for lost time he spills an entire spoonful of coffee on his desk. With a despaired groan, he vows to clean it up when he returns later that day, and scoops another spoonful of coffee, much more carefully this time. He really should be doing this in the shared kitchen down the hall, but why do with others what you can do alone? He tops off the steaming coffee with some water from the bathroom sink so he can drink the whole mug in three desperate gulps, and with no milk or sugar the bitterness has him shiver. Even so, the usual punch of alertness feels dull, almost non-existent. His head still feels heavy, tiredness like a rock at the front of his mind, and that’s all without pause to think about his decisions on Saturday night. Leaving the empty cup on the desk, Keith rushes out of the door, barely remembering to grab his key card before it locks him out. 

The air is warm even this early in the morning and the lingering humidity of summer still hangs in the air, made even more uncomfortable as he makes his way with a slight jog. He can’t shake the feeling that he has forgotten to do something, but it’s not like there is anything he can do about it now so he tries his best to ignore it.

By the time he arrives at the classroom he can already feel sweat breaking out on his skin, never having been any good with heat. He is certainly not at all fond of the cold either, but at least he knows how to deal with it better, nothing quite like the comfort of a warm drink and a thick blanket. The bell had rung when he was barely half way there but still he allows himself a moment to wipe the back of his hand across his forehead. With a deep breath Keith pushes the door open, bristling as all eyes snap to him the moment he enters. It is deathly silent in the classroom, and he gets the feeling that it wasn’t only a second before. It doesn’t last for long, several pairs of students start to mutter under their breaths, and it would take an idiot to not realise they were discussing him. It has Keith heating up with frustration and embarrassment, never having liked being the centre of attention. 

From the corner of his eye Keith can see the instructor, whose name he can’t remember at all, crossing his arms and fixing him with a heated stare. Keith only offers a quick glance in return, just enough time to notice that there is a person stood beside him, another instructor if the grey uniform is anything to go by. However, he pays it no mind, instead quickly scanning the room for a vacant seat. The classroom is made up five rows of two long tables that seat three people each, and of course, the only seat available that won’t have him sandwiched between two people he doesn’t know and doesn’t care to get to know, is in the front row, centre table. Just perfect, he thinks, feeling just about as bitter as the coffee he drank this morning. 

“Ah, Cadet… Kogane, is it?” The instructor says, peering at the class register. “How nice of you to finally join us.”

Titters bubble from the back of the classroom and it takes all of his resolve to stop from heading straight back out the door. Keith doesn’t understand the disdain, it is the first time he has been late this semester. The semester may have only started a week ago but his point still stands. 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the floor. He quickly adds a “sir” and, keeping his head down, walks on auto-pilot to the seat.

The usual instructor waits a few full seconds after Keith is sat down before he resumes talking. Keith has no interest in what he is saying, already looking forward to getting back into bed this evening, but he reaches into his bag and pulls out his creased notebook and a pen that probably doesn’t have many uses left in it. The student two seats away from him looks like they raided an entire stationary store for just this one class, armed to the teeth with colour-coded files, a pencil case almost splitting at the seams and an array of highlighters, just a few of the items perfectly arranged at their desk. Keith feels mightily underprepared, but he feels he needs to make the most of this, and he should probably start with paying attention to the lesson. Keith looks up and his stomach flips with such force it is nothing short of a miracle that his coffee from that morning isn’t thrown up all over the desk. 

Stood at the front of the classroom beside the instructor is Mr. Tank Top from Saturday night. But he is not in a tank top. He’s in an officer’s uniform. And Keith would be lying if he were to say he didn’t look damn fine in it. But it’s a fleeting thought, overwhelmed by panic that hits him like a rush of water. If Keith ever thought there was nothing that could make his time in the Garrison even more difficult, well it was as if the universe was determined to test him. This is a fuck-up on the biggest scale, but at least for once it isn’t all down to him. Working in an airport? What was that all about? There may be planes and jets at the Garrison, but one could hardly call this an airport. Keith tears his eyes away for a full two seconds, all he can manage, before casting them back up at the man. There’s no doubt about it, it’s definitely him, Keith won’t be forgetting about that face for years to come. In what has to be a first for anyone ever, the man is even more attractive than Keith’s drunk memories had offered until now. If this were any typical circumstance Keith might act smug, tap himself on the back for bagging a catch like that. But this was in no way typical. 

Though his pretty face is unforgettable, Keith still can’t recall his name, no matter how hard he thinks back. The letter S keeps floating about in his mind. Could the name have been Swedish? Keith hopes it will be his saving grace that he himself cuts such a forgettable figure, and that he won’t be recognised. He tries to make himself as small as possible, allows his hair to fall over his face a bit more and just hope for the ground to split open beneath him and swallow him whole before he is noticed. But for now Mr. Tank Top seems to be paying him no attention. His posture is rigid, hands held behind his back, eyes focused somewhere at the back of the classroom, every now and again nodding at something the instructor says. Keith might not remember his name, but he recalls enough to know this is like a whole other person. The details are fuzzy, but Keith has clear images of eyes that crinkle with each easy smile. The man in front of him looks so stiff he might crack if he tries so much as smirk. 

“I’m sure you all know him to some extent,” the instuctor says, gesturing to the man beside him.

Wait. Is he some sort of big deal around here? 

“But I will allow Shirogane to introduce himself and answer any questions you may have.” 

That was it. Shiro. Or Shirogane in full. Okay, perhaps not Swedish. 

“Thank you, Colonel Atkins. Hello, Class 1-A.”

Keith tries to not look at him, but he ends up staring. It is an urge that he finds near impossible to ignore, like being unable to refrain from touching a kettle to check if it’s still hot, or touching paint to see if it’s dry. His gaze remains fixed on Shiro, his heart in his throat as he waits for their eyes to meet. And they do. Only for split second, but it’s enough to make him flinch. An adrenaline which seems wholly out of place courses through him. Even though Shiro’s eyes merely swept over his, Keith can’t relax. How could he? It is only a matter of time before the threads of blissful ignorance snap and they both get sent tumbling.

“I apologise that I was unable to make the opening ceremony last week and that I was also absent for your orientation.”

In the pause that follows his sentence, Shiro’s eyes return to meet Keith’s and they linger for a second too long to be meaningless. Even so, he continues with his speech, so obviously prepared and well-rehearsed, but it doesn't take long for him to look back at Keith once more, a double-check as if he is trying to determine something, though it is clear he still isn’t sure of what. 

“For those of you who don’t know me, I am 2nd Lieutenant Shirogane Takashi. I am a pilot here at the Garrison, fighter class.”

His voice is much more stern, less honey-soaked than in the bar or even later in the sheets, but that familiar deepness with just a slight sugary touch has Keith remembering things he shouldn’t ever be thinking of in class, and even though he is already sitting pretty low in his seat, he tries to slip down further, wishing he had something to hide his reddening cheeks behind, too. 

Shiro keeps talking but Keith isn't listening. A million thoughts race through his head, becoming more and more frantic each time their eyes meet, and as the seconds turn into minutes Shiro looks to him more often, never for more than a second but Keith continues to concentrate on him, simply waiting for the inevitable moment. And then it comes. A flash of recognition so sudden it looks almost painful. Shiro’s eyes widen, he chokes on a word, and in that small pause it’s like the whole world around them grinds to a halt and it’s just the two of them with no space to move and no air to breathe. 

Keeping his eyes locked with Keith’s, Shiro gives a small cough and resumes where he left off. It must only be seconds, but it feels like an eternity before he breaks eye contact, his face several shades paler. 

Their eyes don’t meet again, as if Shiro is trying as hard as he can to avoid looking in Keith’s direction.

Shiro finishes speaking and Keith has barely taken in a single word. Sound seems muted, like there were cotton wool crammed down his ears, reducing words to a muffle he struggles to make sense of. He has to force himself to concentrate. 

“So, I bet you’re all wondering why Shirogane is here.” Colonel Atkins starts, stepping forward once more. “Despite only being officer for year, it has been decided that this year Shirogane will act as a teaching assistant in some first-year and fourth-year classes. And you lucky bunch,” he says, with as much enthusiasm as one might expect a dead rodent to muster, “Will have him in this class once a week. Shirogane is statistically one of the best pilots the Garrison has ever coughed up, so don’t screw around with this opportunity.” 

The energy in the classroom thrums like a live wire, excitement tingling in the air. 

“Sir, is it okay if we ask Shiro some questions?” A student from somewhere in the back calls out. 

“That’s Lieutenant Shirogane to you,” the colonel snaps, cheeks reddening just from that short outburst, but it fades almost as quickly as it comes, and with it seems to go Atkins motivation to have anything to do with the class today. 

“If you’re willing to cram two lessons worth of material into Wednesday’s class, then fine. Go ahead.” He says, voice not much more than an effortless grumble before retreating to a seat beside the interactive whiteboard, a slight limp on his right side as he walks, and crosses his arms like an old man readying himself for an afternoon nap. 

It might be too early to tell, but Keith gets the impression that Atkins doesn’t at all enjoy being a teacher, and is even less pleased about Shiro being in the class with him. It isn’t difficult to see why. Shiro has all the things he doesn’t: his youth, looks, and the admiration of the whole class. 

By the look of his face, Shiro had not been expecting the lesson to turn out like this, but he seems to take it in his stride, taking a step forward and welcoming the students to ask him questions. Keith doesn't have to look, he can hear the whoosh of what has to be every student in the class throwing their hands in the air, the classroom suddenly saturated with feverish mutterings of those debating what to ask, shifting forward on their chairs as they try to stand out. 

“Shirogane….erm. Sir,” starts the first question, some boy in the row behind that Keith doesn’t recognise by voice, “What made you want to be a pilot?”

“Honestly? I don’t remember ever wanting to be anything else.” Shiro replies, and Keith can hear the smile in his voice, possibly the first touch of softness since this lesson started. 

“Both my father and grandfather were pilots, though they were military, not space exploration. It was always assumed I’d follow in their footsteps one way or another.” 

Keith rolls his eyes. It must be nice having one’s life laid out for you, having a path readily carved out for you to walk on. But the rest of the students eat it up as if it is the best thing they have ever tasted, and Keith realises it is because most of them can identify with him. It is impossible to not notice the difference between Keith and almost everyone else here, even before the branded clothes and the top range gadgets that are flaunted when classes are done. Even before they all strip out of their uniform, a futile effort to make them all equal, it’s overwhelmingly obvious that Keith doesn’t belong here. 

“Why does everyone have to take flight theory? What about those with no interest in actually flying?”

“This would have been an excellent question for last week in orientation, Carlson,” Atkins growls, sitting up. “What do you think we have orientation for?”

Carlson utters an embarrassed apology and Shiro waits for Atkins to give the go ahead before he answers.

“The Garrison’s priority, first and foremost, is Space Exploration, and we can only go so far without flying. Before I entered the Garrison, I knew I was aiming to be on the Space Exploration Programme and I knew that I wanted to be fighter pilot class. It is understandable that those of you with the intention of aiding exploration from the ground might not see the benefits of flight theory, or indeed flying simulation. But there are some things that you don’t realise you want until you’ve actually tried them.”

Even without looking, just from the sound of his voice, Keith can tell that Shiro is passionate about the Garrison and his place here. It’s easy why the students in this class admire him, Shiro is exactly what everyone came here to be.

“During my time here, I have come across many others who had a set goal only to change their mind. Also, unfortunately, every year there are students aiming for the pilot course only to not make the mark and have to set their sights elsewhere. 

The Garrison attempts to prepare you to have a place where you can contribute to Space Exploration, be it up there piloting the spacecraft, or down here, building it. So, it is important that everyone at least gain the most basic knowledge. You could be surprised where you end up at the end of your four years here.”

Every student is eager to ask a question, make a comment, or simply give praise. It’s almost like there is a celebrity in the room, and by the end of class it seems it’s only Keith who hasn’t raised his hand to speak, but he still learns a lot. Apparently, his charm and passion aren’t the only things that have earned Shiro a positive reputation. His recent mission which made him the youngest person to fly to Mars is a particularly big deal, and having only returned to earth a couple of weeks ago has the students even more excited. An endless barrage of questions fills up every minute of the hour long class, and Shiro rolls with it all, seeming to feed off the positive energy in the room, but it turns out to be a mere illusion which shatters when the bell rings and Shiro’s eyes snap to his, an emotion that Keith can’t quite read showing on his face. Though he would bet his last penny that it’s nothing good. 

Every second until Atkins dismisses the class feels like a needle in Keith’s spine, his hand grips his bag strap tight as his feet itch with the need to rush out of that room, and just before Keith thinks he might scream, the class is finally given permission to leave. A portion of the students bustle to the front of the room, crowding around Shiro like groupies at the end of a concert. 

Recognising this as a perfect opportunity to leave, Keith snatches his bag and marches out the door, without so much as a quick glance back. Though he knows this isn't something he can hide from, it won’t stop him from trying. It has never turned out well in the past, but delaying the inevitable sounds much more appealing than tackling the issue head on. 

Despite the absolute train wreck of a morning, the rest of the day is uneventful. Somehow Keith manages to not even catch a glimpse of Shiro as he moves from classroom to classroom, but he can’t allow himself to relax, a voice in the back of his mind insistent that he recognises this for what it is: the calm before the storm. The hours blend together and before he knows it there are only minutes left of the last class of the day. He was always good at physics back in school, and for the first ten or twenty minutes of this applied physics class he really was following everything the teacher was saying, but it didn’t take long before he found himself distracted. He replays Saturday night over and over in his mind, thinking of anything that could have hinted that Shiro was an instructor at the Garrison and spared him this hassle. In any case, Shiro definitely told him he worked at the airport, Keith remembers that much. He also remembers that he didn’t mention being a student at the Garrison either, but it’s a no brainer why he wouldn’t reveal that information. This is just one big mess. It’s stupid really, and the more he thinks about it, the more Keith is sure that he has heard the name Shirogane before, somewhere in the halls, or perhaps even during orientation. 

The bell rings and Keith stupidly allows himself to get hopeful that he might just be able to head back to his room entirely without any issue. He doesn't even make it two steps out of the classroom door before his name is called out from down the hall, but it isn’t who he expects. 

It’s Captain Ramos, an instructor whose name he does actually remember, and like a hammer to the gut he realises why he had that niggling feeling he’d forgotten something that morning.

“Shit.”

“Shit indeed, Kogane.” Ramos jeers, stopping barely a metre in front of Keith, towering over him like a damn tree as the other students leaving the classroom walk around them, throwing curious glances in their direction. “Your first day and you think you can just skip on P.T?”

Keith opens his mouth to try and defend himself, even though he knows all he has to offer is the piss-poor excuse of completely forgetting about the morning physical training Monday to Thursday. He was so eager for the day to end that he only looked for the details of the class immediately following the one he was sitting in. Before he can get a word out however, the captain is demanding Keith follow him, and even he knows this isn’t a battle worth fighting. 

The instructor’s offices are located in the South Wing of the Garrison, Ramos’ being one of many occupying a long hall, four doors on each side. There are no windows and the bulbs in the ceiling may as well be turned off for how little light they give off. It seems so dated compared to the rest of the Garrison, especially considering the fancy instructor’s lounge in the central building.

The door to Ramos’ office door isn’t even shut before he starts with his scolding. He doesn’t say anything that Keith hasn’t heard before, and it doesn’t take long for him to get bored. His thoughts drift elsewhere, but they don’t aim to take him anywhere better than here. He tries to think of how good it’s going to feel getting into bed that night, or the funny film he watched the night before leaving for the Garrison, but he can barely even remember the plot. His mind instead chooses to focus on the look of dismay on Shiro’s face that morning when he recognised him, and compare it to how he’d smiled at him so softly on Saturday night. 

“You paying attention to me, boy?”

“How couldn’t I,” he snaps, unable to stop himself even though he regrets it as soon as the first sounds breaks from his throat, “when you’re talking so loud, old man?”

Keith knows anger. He’s seen it in all its forms, and there isn’t even a shadow of a doubt that Ramos is angry, so saturated with it that it fills his cheeks a violent red. 

“Kogane! I am warning you now,” he starts, barely able to keep his words fixed below a yell as they squeeze past his teeth, “You ever speak to me like that again, and you’ll have a difficult few years at the Garrison. You got that?” 

It takes more inner strength than a whole army could possess to not roll his eyes back at him. This day alone has been enough to show that no matter what, his next few years at the Garrison, if he makes it that far, are going to be anything but easy. Even so, Keith doesn’t want to be shooting himself in the foot and make it any more difficult than it has to be, so he while he doesn’t apologise, he doesn’t say anything else either, only offering a nod. 

“So here’s what’s gonna happen,” Ramos announces, scratching along his thick beard that follows his jawline, “For the next month, you’ll get your ass to the training field 6am on the dot.”

“6?” Keith groans, his shoulders sagging. 

“You wanna make it 5:30? ‘Cause I will.”

There is nothing likeable about this bastard, Keith decides. 

“No, sir.”

Ramos glares at him, as if daring him to say anything else, and holds the look long enough that it becomes uncomfortable, before eventually clicking his tongue and breaking eye contact. His boots are heavy against the floor as he moves to sit behind his desk, leaning back deeply despite the protests of the chair legs. 

“You’ll have 30 minutes of one-on-one training with me, then we’ll see if you ever forget about P.T again. So, where’re you gonna be tomorrow morning?”

“On the training field.”

“At what time?”

“6am,” Keith replies, unable to make it sound anything other than a reluctant grumble. 

“And not a second later.”

Keith nods, but only because it seems like he is waiting for an answer of some sort. 

“Right, off with you.” Ramos says with a flick of his wrist. 

Keith hustles out as quick as he can but he doesn't make it even two steps away from the door before the adjacent office opens, Colonel Atkins beckoning him in with his stubby fingers. 

It’s much of the same as it was with Captain Ramos, though not as intense and Atkins doesn’t raise his voice, spewing more of a grumpy drawl, reiterating the same point like a track on repeat. It’s difficult to imagine that this guy was ever a pilot, he doesn’t fit the image at all, not in figure nor in personality, any charisma going the same way as most of the hair on his head.

Just as Keith thinks he might start falling asleep there is a knock on the door behind him. Atkins gives permission to enter, and Keith is thankful for the interruption, sure that he’ll be sent on his way. 

“Shirogane, what do you need?”

Any feelings of fortune crumble into nothing right then and there, and Keith wishes he could join it. He doesn’t move, body stiff and eyes forward, though he doesn’t focus on anything. Some sort of confrontation was entirely expected, inevitable, but Keith doesn’t feel at all prepared. 

“Colonel Atkins, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to have a word with Kogane when you’re done.” 

Atkins gives a snort of derision, and looks at Keith with disbelief. “Managed to piss off another officer, Kogane? Keep it up, you’ll be on your way to the fastest expulsion in the history of the Garrison.

“Take him, Shirogane. We’re finished here. Kogane, don’t be late to my class again.”

Keith wants to bolt, but where would he go? There’s nowhere to hide here. He imagines getting himself to the nearest town, even though he knows it not an easy task, and just roughing it for a little while. If this goes as bad as he’s expecting it to, it might end up being the case anyway. It’s not like he has anywhere to go back to. 

With slow steps he follows Shiro to an office at the end of the hall, holding his breath as he walks through the door held open for him. Where the other instructors had their own offices, there are two desks in here. One of them is piled high with books, open and closed ones stacked so haphazardly it’s a feat that they haven’t yet toppled over. Even around the desk there is an unimaginable level of clutter. Keith doesn’t think he’s owned this amount of things in his entire life. The other desk and its surrounding area, however, is pristine apart from a few cardboard boxes to the side, though they are stacked neatly, too. It seems obvious which one belongs to Shiro. While Shiro turns on the lights, Keith places himself on the side of the room with the chaotic desk, standing awkwardly as he waits for Shiro to say something.

Shiro throws a quick glance down the corridor before shutting the door behind him, and Keith feels as he if has been thrown in a cage. This is entirely different than what he felt with Atkins and Ramos. He grips the strap of his bag slung over his shoulder as if to ground himself, overwhelmed by the sensation of balancing on a cliff edge with nowhere to go but down. As if Shiro notices his unease, he steps away from the door and walks to the side of the room, leaving a free path between Keith and the exit. Despite the urge to take this chance and sprint out the door, Keith chooses to stay where he stands and wait for Shiro to speak, eager to get this over with as soon as possible. With his eyes towards the floor he waits for some time, and then a little while more until he can’t wait any longer and just has to look up. Shiro is looking at him as if at a complete loss. Their eyes hold for an uncomfortable few seconds before he drags his hand over his face, looking absolutely drained. 

“Please tell me this is some sort of joke.”

Keith doesn't say anything, he doesn't know if he’s supposed to. Although he’s tempted to try, Keith knows it would be useless to lie and claim that he has no idea what Shiro is talking about, that he has the wrong person, but he doesn’t know what else he can offer. Still, he finds it odd that he is struck silent, as if his tongue were strapped down, as if he were afraid of saying the wrong thing. It doesn’t happen all too often, and he’s been told many times that he needs to think before he speaks. But this is a situation he has never had to deal with before. His past hookups have all been with nobodies, mere shadows that come and go with no consequence, barely-there memories that no longer serve him any purpose. 

Keeping on the opposite side of the room, Shiro starts to pace, never moving towards Keith, never getting in the way of the door, even though the look on his face screams of desperation to flee, something Keith understands. 

“What...I mean, why...” he stops and takes a breath, and Keith recognises it as a pause to stop himself from cursing. “How old are you, Kogane?” 

“17.”

He doesn’t answer at first, just sucks on his lips while nodding slowly, taking it in.

“How didn’t I realise?” Shiro groans, “I mean, look at you. You don’t look 21.”

“Well, it was pretty dark in the bar...”

Even as he says it, Keith knows it isn’t helping the situation at all, and he thinks he might hear give in and Shiro curse under his breath. The air is heavy with tension, it weighs down his limbs and locks his joints, settling so thick in his throat that he can barely breathe. He can’t figure out why Shiro doesn’t look more relieved. There’s no doubt that he thought Keith was 16, the age of most cadets who start at the Garrison, but he still looks like he might collapse. “Pretty sure 17 is legal here, and I’m like a month away from 18, so what’s the problem?” 

“What about me?” Shiro says, each word like a plea. “What about what I’m comfortable with? I thought I was taking a 21-year-old to bed.”

“I’m just as mature as any 21-year-old.” 

“Kogane, drinking in a bar and sleeping with strangers is not what makes you mature.”

Keith can feel his cheeks burn. His mouth opens to retort, but he doesn’t have anything to say. It is so clear in this moment, in the way the way that Shiro looks at him, that he sees him as immature, and Keith knows that the way he is acting doesn’t refute that. 

“Are you…you know, are you okay?” Shiro looks all of a sudden that he might throw up. “We, I mean I drank a lot. Did I take advantage of you?”

There’s guilt carved on his face so deep it might scar, and then a flash of something Keith can’t take at all: Pity.

“Get over yourself, Shirogane.” He snaps, fingernails digging crescents into his palm. “You think you’re the first man I’ve slept with?” 

The words come out far too loud, they bounce back at him from all four walls. There’s a moment of tense silence, but Shiro still looks at him as something damaged, and it makes Keith feel sick to his stomach. 

“I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. I just…This is a lot for me to take in.” Shiro takes a breath and pinches the bridge of his nose, allowing himself a second to compose himself. 

“Why did you lie to me?” He asks, voice calm and controlled, but it sounds forced. 

“Hey, hold up,” Keith says, finding his voice. “Don’t go pinning this all on me. You lied to me too.”

“Yes, and I’m sorry for that. Don’t get me wrong, I do take responsibility for the fact that had I told you I was in the Garrison, this probably wouldn’t have happened.”

It is clear on Shiro’s face that guilt is eating him from the inside out, and Keith wants to feel bad, he does, somewhere deep down, but instead he focuses on it like a weak point. 

“Well, there we go,” Keith huffs, crossing his arms, “It was just as much your fault as mine. And you, an adult, should have known better.” 

The last line taste bitter before he even speaks it, but Keith is desperate to make this anyone else’s fault but his own. Things never seem to turn out well when he is the one to blame, and the consequences of this particular screw-up can only be worse than anything else he’s done. So many times he’s heard growing up: He’s not a bad kid, just troubled, but at the moment Keith knows he’s being absolutely awful. The look on Shiro’s face says enough. 

“Kogane, you have to realise, had I known you were a student here, had I known you were 17, I would have never -”

“Look we were both drunk and what happened happened.” Keith interjects, his own guilt growing each second he has to listen to Shiro. “I don’t even know what the damn issue is here.”

“You don’t know…Kogane, I am an officer. You are a student. And that is before we move on to the fact that you are only 17.”

“It really isn’t that big a deal.”

“Not that big a deal?” he exclaims, eyes wide. “It is a huge deal. It is a huge problem, Kogane. I really messed up.” 

It is probably the most exasperated he has got during this whole exchange, but he still hasn’t shouted, hasn't done so much as throw a threatening gesture. Keith finally recognises him as just a man who thinks he’s on the edge of losing everything, angry at himself when he has every right to direct it all at Keith.

“What am I going to do?” Shiro says with a sigh, burying his face in his hands. He looks defeated, only moments from a complete surrender. 

“Well, what about doing nothing?” Keith offers, only to receive a tired look from Shiro.  
“I can’t just do nothing. I have to tell Commander Iverson what happened,” he says, more to himself than Keith. “Probably talk to HR... hand in my resignation.”

After only a few seconds of consideration he seems to make up his mind, nodding sharply and marching towards the door, sudden intent in every step. 

“Woah! Hang on a minute.” Keith launches forward and moves to block his path. “Hey, you can’t do that,” he exclaims, holding his hands out until Shiro stills, though he clearly isn’t happy to do so. 

Since seeing Shiro that morning, Keith has imagined this sort of scenario; senior officers being informed, disciplinary meetings, all ending with him packing his suitcase and being sent on his way, but now that Shiro is determined to put that into motion, Keith realises just how not ready he is for that. 

“Drinking. Out past curfew…before you even consider the rest of it,” Keith starts, unable to lift his eyes above Shiro’s chest, “I could get kicked out of the Garrison.” His voice is small, and Keith feels even smaller. This isn’t the first time he’s landed himself in hot water, but facing expulsion from the Garrison less than a fortnight after classes start, well that would be a new low. “They’re raring to get rid of me already.”

It’s always like this. Keith doesn’t know why he’s the way he is, insistent on pushing and pushing against certain boundaries, only to have the glass that encases him break, unable to take his pushing any more, and each time he is left trying to scrape up the pieces in a panic, bloodying his hands and staining everything and everyone around him in the process. 

“You’re asking me to lie to my superior officers?” He sounds incredulous, as if it were something he wouldn’t even dream of considering. 

“You wouldn’t be lying,” Keith counters, lowering his hands, sure now that Shiro won’t just storm past him. “Simply not telling them.”

“I’m supposed to report all incidents, regardless of those involved.”

“Look, there is literally no point in telling them.”

Shiro still looks uncomfortable, his eyes darting between Keith and the door.

“Please. I don’t have anything else.”

“Keith…Kogane, what were you doing in that bar?”

Even if he had a good reason, it is unlikely he would say it, so he keeps his not-so-good reasons to himself, giving only a reluctant shrug of his shoulders. Keith expects an impatient sigh, or that Shiro demand an answer, but he doesn’t. Though he looks disappointed, Shiro accepts Keith’s silence, responding with a weak nod. Keith almost wishes that he’d got angry instead. 

“I need to think,” is what Shiro says, but all Keith hears is, “I need to breathe,” “I need to get away.” He realises then that he is stood between Shiro and the door, having moved on impulse and effectively locking him in. The moment Keith steps to the side Shiro walks to the door and takes hold of the handle, though he lets his hand rest there. 

“Shiro.”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice quiet as if he doesn’t wish to admit it, even though he does mostly mean it. There is an irritating part of his brain that is defiant, insisting that Keith has done nothing wrong. But bigger than that, louder than that, is Shiro in class this morning telling all sorts of Garrison stories, about piloting spacecraft. Keith doesn’t remember having passion like that in his whole life, for anything. It should have always been obvious, but he is just starting to realise that out of the two of them, Shiro has a whole lot more to lose from this. “I really didn’t know you were an instructor here.” 

“If this were to get out-”

“Well, I’m not telling anyone.”

“How can I trust you?” Shiro asks, nothing suggesting that he believes Keith has the answer. 

“You don’t have to trust me…just believe me.”

“I don’t really think that’s any easier.”

Keith feels as if he has managed to break something that was never whole in the first place. It is an odd feeling, only made more confusing when Keith finds himself wanting to pick up the pieces and try to put them back together. 

After what seems like an hour, Shiro opens the office door. Keith can see the whites of his knuckles, hears the creak of the brass handle in his grip. It seems he is fighting to say something, or perhaps it’s entirely the opposite. 

“Wait, so what’s gonna happen?” Keith blurts out, unable to take the awkward silence any longer. 

“I need you out of my office by the time I get back.”

Without another word nor another look back at Keith, he walks out, the door left to inch shut behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

A late summer rain threatens to break over the horizon, a swell of purple and grey tumbles towards the Garrison, no doubt descending over the base before the end of this class. There are only ten minutes left, and they are quite possible the longest ten minutes of Keith’s life. Back in school, physics had been a subject that came relatively easy to him so long as he paid moderate attention in class, but he feels as if his focus is on anywhere but here, his eyes flicking back and forth from the clock to out the window.

It's the last class on Thursday afternoon, and Keith is yet to be dragged into the Commander’s office, so he assumes Shiro hasn’t said anything to anyone. It allows him to breathe just a little bit easier. He can’t remember if sleep came to him at all that first night, and he spent the following day expecting a hand to fall heavy upon his shoulder to march him out the front doors, but not so much as a suspicious glance has come his way, and he hasn’t seen Shiro since. Logic would tell him that it was simply a coincidence, that he’s just busy doing whatever he does around here, but Keith can’t help but think it’s intentional. 

He looks back at the clock to see that only a minute has passed. Everyone around him is taking notes, the instructor is still talking and Keith feels utterly out of place in this scene, a mere extra who stumbled onto the set at the wrong time with the wrong lines. 

A single drop of rain strikes the window beside him, he looks beyond it to see the darkened sky blooming up above, and it could easily be the onset of early evening. Damnit. He’d hoped that he would be able to get back to the dorm before it started to rain. It’s less than a ten minute walk to get there from the main base, but Keith has never liked the rain, especially when he has to be outside in it. Something about the sensation of clothes sticking to his skin goes through him, just like hearing nails dragged down a chalkboard. He has a faint memory of being pushed into a pool fully clothed, wet clothes weighting down his limbs, a hard-fought struggle to pull himself above the surface of the water and the squelch of his brand new shoes, already threatening to shrivel and crack in the summer sun. The memory of the anger and scolding that followed is less faint.

At long last the bell rings, but his relief is short lived, his mind quick to remind him that there is still one more day until the weekend. Keith stands from his seat, wincing as his calves protest the movement, still aching from the personal PT session this morning. It’s only an additional thirty minutes, but Ramos seems intent on making the most of each and every single second of that time, working muscles that Keith didn't even know existed. The only half-decent thing the man has done so far is allow Friday as a day off. Keith thinks that’s more for his own benefit though, seeing as there’s no PT on Fridays and it would mean getting to the training field only for Keith. Not that he cares so much for the reasoning behind it, he’s just glad that he’ll get a little bit more sleep tomorrow. Coming here has changed Keith already. He never thought he’d see the day when he’d consider a 7am wake up as a lie-in. 

By the time Keith reaches the doors that lead out the main building, the rain falls so heavy that he can barely see more than twenty metres, the walls surrounding the Garrison lost to a wall of water. He lingers by the door to consider his options, moving aside to let pass two girls he recognises from class, and watches the two of them open up their umbrellas as they walk out the door. He sure could use an umbrella of his own right now. Keith considers turning back around and heading for the library to take advantage of his misfortune, see this as a sign to get a head start on his weekend assignments, and maybe wait out the rain. But the idea is short-lived. Deciding that he would rather get drenched and be back in his room sooner rather than later, and making a promise to himself that he’ll at least start the simpler pieces of work waiting for him in his bag, he pushes through the door and makes his way to the dorms at full sprint. 

It doesn’t even take five seconds for him to become drenched, his already tired muscles struggle against his uniform made heavy by the rain. He can barely see where he’s going, but still he overtakes the two girls from before in no time at all, surprising them with his wet steps. 

There is an administrative office just up ahead, after which he has to turn left and then it is a straight path, no more than three minutes if he can keep at this speed. As he rounds the corner, he shakes his head to try and clear some of the rain from his eyes, looking back up just in time to recognise a grey uniform before he collides into it. His feet slip beneath him, delivering him ass first to the wet path.

The tree of a person, who by the looks of it wasn’t moved even an inch despite Keith’s entire body weight being thrown into them, asks him if he is okay and holds out their hand. Keith looks up and comes to the conclusion that the universe is tormenting him just for the fun of it. 

Stood above him is, of course, Shiro. Though it is subtle, Keith doesn’t fail to notice how he almost draws back his hand when he sees who is on the ground, as if Keith is something dangerous, or perhaps something filthy that he shouldn’t touch, but after a moment of hesitation Shiro does keep his arm extended, his face painted neutral as he offers assistance. 

Keith’s anger dulls somewhat when he sees just how awful Shiro looks, like he hasn’t slept a wink since they last saw one another. Even so, Keith has never been one to readily accept help, especially when it's given reluctantly. Using his hands to push himself up from the ground, he stands and wipes his palms on the sides of his trousers, streaking them with small pebbles and dirt. He ignores the slight sting. 

They both realise at the same time just how close they are stood together, the two of them under the one umbrella. Shiro visibly gulps but remains where he is stood. Keith can read in his face that he wants more than anything to step back because Keith feels it too, but like this he is mostly spared from the onslaught of rain, only a few wayward drops finding their way to the backs of his legs, and he doubts even Shiro is willing to cast him back out into the rain so suddenly. 

For some painfully long seconds the only sound is the water falling around them and Keith’s quickened breathing. They are only inches apart, close enough to tell that Shiro own breathing is controlled, unnaturally so, his eyes anywhere but at Keith as he seems to concentrate on planning how to get away. 

Keith figures he’ll just do it for him. “Look where you’re going,” he grumbles, making a deliberate move to step past Shiro.

“Kogane, wait.” Shiro says, stepping with Keith, sheltering him once more. “You’re soaked through, you’ll catch a cold.” 

“I’m only a few minutes from the dorm, I’ll be fine.” He replies, irked at this sudden pretence of caring. 

“Where I’m headed is closer, here, take my umbrella.”

Who the hell does he think he is? Some knight in shining armour? Is that how he sees Keith, just a damsel in distress? 

“I’m not taking your stupid umbrella. Either walk with me or go your own way.” He pushes the umbrella back towards Shiro, thinking nothing of his fingertips brushing against his hand, but Shiro flinches as if burned. It pisses him off, and Keith should just walk away, but he stays as if there were a slim chance that Shiro might take the first option. The rain seems to be falling even harder now, beating at the umbrella like sticks against a drum, and Keith’s uniform clings to him like tar, heavy as if it means to pull him once more to the ground. 

“I can’t be seen with you. Not like this.”

Keith feels like a shameful secret, and never before has it come with such a sense of powerlessness. It makes him angry that everything involving Shiro is different, when there really shouldn’t be any difference at all.

“Fine,” he says, unable to stop his lips from curling downwards. “See ya around.” 

Keith thinks that Shiro says something, but he’s already started running, allowing the downpour to drown any words, and he doesn’t stop until his bedroom door is closed behind him, his breath running ragged from his chest. 

For the first time since coming here, Keith waits for the water to warm before he steps under the shower head, a small victory that he has no energy to celebrate. He takes a deep breath and holds his face under the falling stream, wishing that the water would wash away more than the dirt, rain, and sweat. Ever since he was a child, Keith has liked his baths and showers to be quick, only in them as long as it takes to get clean, but this time he stands there until his resentment fades into nothing more than a weak ember within his chest. His fingertips wrinkle long before that happens. 

While Keith dries off he thinks about how best to spend the rest of his evening. Though he’d like nothing more than to crawl into bed with a random movie, Keith remembers his earlier pledge to himself that he’d do his homework. He’s not known to keep his promises, least of all those made to himself, but it has to be done sooner or later. 

Keith had spread his worksheets and the few textbooks he’d bothered to pack across his desk as soon as he’d peeled the uniform from his skin. His bag had done a decent job of protecting them, only the edges of the pages having become wet and they’re already starting to dry, though the corners curl as they do so.

He clears up his room a little, though there really isn’t all that much to put away. The room came furnished with a single bed, a desk with two shelves on the wall above it, and a wardrobe. Many of the students like to complain that the rooms are too small, but Keith finds it perfect, having absolutely no idea what he would do with more space. Apart from a few bits-and-bobs and textbooks for class, the shelves remain mostly empty even after unpacking everything, and he only uses one drawer in the wardrobe. 

By the time he finishes, most of the worksheets are completely dry but his stomach is grumbling. Poking his head out of his bedroom door, he listens out for anyone else. There are six rooms in each block and Keith’s is the furthest from the common room, something that turned out to be a blessing when he realised that the other students in his block were fond of socialising in there. He's been invited to join them three times, he's turned them down three times, and he hasn’t been invited again since. Now that the nights have already started blending into one another, he finds himself wishing that he’d said yes at least once. 

Keith can’t hear anyone but he does see light coming from under the door. It isn’t ideal, but he won’t go hungry just to avoid others. Checking that his keycard is in his back pocket, he leaves his room and walks across the hall to the common room. 

There’s someone in there sat at the dining table, books and papers scattered over most of it as if they’d been thrown there from a distance. Keith thinks he’s seen this guy leaving the room furthest from his own, they’ve possibly exchanged a word or two in the two weeks he’s been there. He looks up from his textbook to the click of the door shutting behind Keith, his thick-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose. Keith offers an awkward smile, and gets one in return. 

“Hey, uh…Keith, right?” 

“Yeah.”

“You’re room 4F.” 

“And you’re 4A”

“That’s right,” he says warmly. “But you can just call me Dale.”

Keith nods in acknowledgment, but with no idea of what more he could add, he continues to the cooking area and see Dale return his attention to the textbook in front of him. 

There is a cupboard for each of the six students in this block, and some of the other students have managed to cram their cupboards with so much that they don’t shut properly and they’ve taken to stacking pots and pans on the counter. Keith settled for only stocking the absolute basics for a cooking repertoire which doesn’t extend to much further than sandwiches and instant noodles, the latter of which is on the menu for this evening. 

“Hey, you’re in class 1A, right?” Dales asks after a short while. 

Keith turns down the heat to let the noodles simmer for a little while longer, and faces Dale, giving a hum to confirm. 

“I heard you have Lieutenant Shirogane in your Flight Theory class.”

Of all the directions this conversation could have taken, Keith is certain Dale couldn’t have chosen a worse one. 

“Yep.” 

Despite Keith’s disinterested reply, Dale’s face breaks into a wide grin. “Man, I’m so jealous. What’s he like, y’know, in person?” 

If Keith had been asked what a good kisser he is, or how good he looks with his shirt off, then Keith could give some information, but he can’t say the first thing about Shiro as a person. In the three instances Keith has interacted with Shiro, he was like a completely different person each time. And still he knows more about him than he would ever want for a random hookup. 

“He's alright, I guess.” 

“I saw him when I came to an opening day last year.” Dale looks like he might put down his pen but he chooses not to, twiddling it between his fingers instead as he continues. “He was just so cool, y’know?”

He shares the same giddy look on his eyes as most of the other students when they’re talking about Shiro. Keith can’t help but wonder if he too would be in such awe if their first meeting hadn’t gone the way it had. Probably not. 

“To be honest, I think he’s got a huge stick up his ass.” Keith says, but with the way Dale looks at him without expression, it’s clear that the opinion isn’t a shared one, not in the least. “But what do I know?”

It doesn’t take long for Keith to realise that he probably shouldn’t have said that. He thinks it was obviously rhetorical, but clearly it wasn’t obvious enough because Dale takes it as an opportunity to enlighten him. Even so, though Keith doesn’t offer more than a hum here and there while keeping an eye on his food, the casual interaction is surprisingly pleasant. It becomes clear that the foundation of Dale's admiration is Shiro's academic prowess, with not much to say outside of that. The conversation dries up by the time Keith has plated up and washed the pan, leaving him standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen wondering what he should do. They’d just been talking but Keith doesn’t know if that’s enough of an invitation to join him at the table. Keith is yet to eat a meal in this room, usually opting to eat alone in his bedroom, but that doesn’t seem all that appealing right now. 

“Anyway,” Dale sighs before Keith has a chance to say anything, “I gotta get back to work. Not gonna make fighter pilot otherwise.” 

There’s nothing malicious in the way he says it, even Keith recognises that, but it feels like rejection all the same. 

He sits at his desk with his noodles, pushing aside the the slightly crisp papers to make room for the bowl. It doesn’t look all that appetising, a plain, soggy mess, but it’ll do. He really should make some effort to learn how to cook, and there are no excuses now but when he gets one good, full meal a day a lunch in the cafeteria, Keith finds it impossible to muster the motivation to change. He puts on some TV show that he's not at all interested in, doesn't pay attention, but he'll take anything to mask the quiet. 

Keith manages to focus on his work for a whole hour, but allows himself to stop when he reaches the more difficult equations, just where he started losing focus in class that afternoon. He knows he can do it, he just needs to read through the textbook, if only it weren’t so damn boring. It’s still early evening but Keith tidies away his work, stacking it up in a tall pile and pushes it to the side of the desk, leaving it beside the empty bowl. He’s suffered enough awkward interactions for one day. 

Standing up from his desk, Keith groans and does his best to shake away his dead leg before moving to seat himself on the bed. He slides his hand under his pillow, reaching around until his fingers hit what he is looking for. He sits back against the wall and considers the knife in his hand. It’s something he has owned for a long time. He can’t remember exactly when or how it came to be his, only that it once belonged to his father, and something tells Keith that is was once his mother’s. Was it given to him? Was it something he found when alone in that house far too big? Perhaps he took it, he did go through a stealing phase in his early teens, maybe it started sooner than that. Even with all the mystery surrounding it, Keith knows somehow that this knife is important, and is certain that it should belong to him now. He has had a hell of a time making sure it stayed with him all these years. What would the instructors would do if they found him keeping a weapon in his room? He’s never had to use it, and he doesn’t plan to, but there is an undeniable sense of unease at the thought of having it taken away from him. He supposes that’s what happens when you only have a mystery inanimate object as a clue to who you are. 

Keith has never had any memory of his mother, doesn’t even have any secondhand stories with which to paint her face or character, but as the years have passed even his father’s image struggles to come to him most days. It happened slowly as if only a pixel was taken each day, but by the time he realised, it was too late to gather what he’d lost. When he was seven years old, the two of them lived in a small town, in a house barely standing, and Keith can remember the face of his neighbour as if he’d only seen her yesterday, can almost taste the sweetness of her homemade orange juice, how cool it felt against his lips in the height of summer. But when he tries to picture his father, who he saw every single day of his life until sometime between his tenth and eleven birthday, it’s like he’s peering through frosted glass, every now and again being granted a split second of clarity only for it to be snatched away before he can grab hold. Even so, he just knows that after all this time he’d be able to spot his father in a crowd without need for even a second glance. To this day, he can’t push away that small bit of hope that it’ll happen.

He tugs at the material wrapped around the handle, thinking to reveal the whole thing, but decides against it and puts the blade back under his pillow, taking a short while to realise it from his fingers. He has his own room now, and he is at no risk of anyone entering unannounced, but it’s a force of habit to keep it concealed, but near.

Even after an extra hour and a half of sleep, Keith feels as dead as usual the next morning, perhaps even more so. Barely a second after opening his eyes he is already thinking of Saturday, looking forward to waking up when his body is ready, and not when his alarm dictates it time to do so. 

The classes are as mind-numbing as ever, and Keith feels restless sitting in classrooms all day, so much so that he finds himself looking forward to Defence Training in the last period. It has to be at least a hundred times better than the morning Physical Training. For starters, and probably most importantly, it’s not led by Ramos, which can only be a good thing. From what Keith understood during orientation, much of this class will focus on learning defensive hand-to-hand combat with opportunity to hone the skills through sparring, and he is desperate to learn something here that’s immediately applicable and with purpose. 

With what he considers plenty of time, as he’s made sure to do with every single class since Monday morning, Keith makes his way out of the changing rooms, walks into the gym, and is greeted by the stench of old sweat and cheap air freshener that does nothing to mask it. 

There are already many other students in there, all in matching sport kits but standing around in their separate groups. Keith recognises some of them from class, there are faces he recalls seeing here and there around campus, but there are also a few faces he doesn’t recall at all. Both first year classes come together for Physical Training and Defence Training, but Keith doesn’t pay much attention to others when he’s fully alert, never mind first thing in the morning, and Ramos makes sure everyone understands that PT is not a time for mingling. 

More students hustle in, and Dale is one of them, entirely absorbed in conversation with one of the girls from their block. Keith finds himself with students either side of him, and even more crowding behind him as it gets closer to the beginning of class. As subtly as he can manage he sidesteps through the newcomers until he’s stood at the edge of the group once more.

The bell chimes just as the instructor marches through the door, as is she has been waiting for the perfect timing. Her face is soft and kind, what Keith imagines to be considered motherly, but her body is one built of a strict regimen, her thighs easily bigger than more than half of the instructors’ at the Garrison, including Ramos.

“Welcome to Defensive Combat.” She says once stood in front of the class, her posture stiff and arms hooked behind her back, every bit a product of military training. She is one of the few senior officers at the Garrison who made her way up the promotion ladder without ever making a journey into space, making her own mark in mission control and her excellent physical prowess. From what he’s heard of Colonel Morris, Keith doesn’t know whether to respect her or fear her, though he’s heard a good deal of people suggest the first-year students do both. 

Behind him, two students start muttering beneath their breath to one another, and by the sound of it, one of them is trying to hush the other up. Keith only hears one thing clearly as the student’s voice breaks just above a whisper to cut out the shushing. 

“Lance, I just…why are we learning how to fight?”

Keith looks over his shoulder to try to spot who spoke and sees the guy behind him to his left, his face almost too gentle and timid for his stature. He stands tall and wide, but even from a quick glance it’s easy to see that his chubbiness is only a soft blanket over thick muscle. If he would learn to utilise the strength that comes with it, Keith wouldn’t want to be the one who has to spar against him.

He had barely spoken above his breath, but apparently Colonel Morris has hearing like that of a bat. 

“This isn’t learning to fight, it’s learning to defend yourself.” She states, hushing the big guy straight away. “It’s a big universe. You never know what you’re going to come across.”

“Aliens?” someone, a guy stood only a few metres from Keith, snorts, “I mean, come on.”

The comment manages to get a giggle or two from the small group surrounding him, but the rest of the class remains quiet, unnaturally so, as if they daren’t even release a breath. Keith recognises the guy just from his voice, Something Matthews. He’s in the same class, and Keith has always considered him a loudmouth prick, far too eager to prove himself in class, even to the point of interrupting other students when he feels they aren’t answering the question quick enough. It’s like being back in elementary with a kid obsessed with amassing more and more gold stars.

“There’s something else to be said about sparring,” Morris says, walking towards Matthews with controlled strides. She stops in front of him, her expression entirely calm which makes her seem more intimidating, even while she stands a whole head shorter than him. “It’s an opportunity to learn discipline.”

She moves so quick that Keith doesn’t see how she does it, but in an instant she has Matthews flat on the ground, his arm twisted behind his back. He jerks, but stills with a groan of discomfort. 

“And perhaps some respect.” 

Keith can’t help but smirk. He already he knows that he likes this instructor, and that he’s going to like this class. 

“There’s more to space exploration than burying your nose in textbooks.” She says, releasing her hold. “And we’re not going to send some cocky kid who doesn’t know his mouth from his asshole.” 

The smirk is still soft on Keith’s face when Matthews picks himself up from the floor, and it doesn’t go missed by him, his face souring as he glares heatedly, though Keith pays it no mind; if the guy wants to rattle him, he’s going to have to do a whole lot more than that. But Matthews doesn’t give in, throwing angry glances at him throughout the whole warm-up.

Morris asks for a volunteer, no one offers themselves up, and Keith doesn’t blame them. In the end, she selects a student at random and demonstrates the technique they’ll be practicing with partners. Much of the class seems apprehensive about this, Keith imagines that very few of these students have actually been in any sort of fight their entire lives, but the move looks simple enough.

They’re instructed to get into pairs, such a simple thing that has Keith’s stomach twist, like a cloth being wrung dry. He scans the class, not knowing who he’s looking for until he sees that Dale has partnered up with the girl he’d been speaking with earlier. Someone taps Keith on his shoulder, not at all lightly. It’s Matthews. Not that he tries all too hard not to, Keith can’t help but roll his eyes as he turns away, casting one last search around the room, but everyone is already paired up, a jovial atmosphere building while Matthews is looking at him as if he’d snatched away his favourite toy. Keith sighs. This is threatening to ruin the only interesting class in his entire week.

Eager to just get this over and done with, Keith turns and faces him, both stepping onto the mat which squeaks under their feet. 

“I don’t know who you think you are,” Matthews hisses, squaring his shoulders and raising his fists, “But laugh at me again, and I’ll make sure you know who I am.”

Is this guy for real? For at least five seconds, Keith stares back at him blankly waiting for the punchline, but it never comes. 

“Dude, put your fists down. This isn’t some kung-fu movie.” Keith says, quiet so not to bring attention, but he goes completely ignored. 

“Alright cadets,” the instructor starts, calling out for the room to hear, “Decide between yourselves who’s going to be the attacker, and who’s going to be defending.”

It seems like Matthews has already decided which part he’s going to play, and he doesn’t seem willing to hand it over. He hops from one foot to the other, raring to go.

Keith doesn’t claim to be a master of sparring, but he’s dabbled in some martial arts classes in the past, and he’s been in more than his fair share of fights. Just by looking at Matthews’ stance, it’s clear he has next to no idea what he is doing, and must have been paying the absolute minimum amount of attention to the instructions.

As soon as they’re given permission to start, Matthews lunges forward. Where he is supposed to direct a controlled strike towards Keith’s chest, instead he throws a wild punch straight at his face. 

It is something Keith entirely expected, so it’s easy for him to dodge, and not much more difficult to grab the arm coming towards him and use Matthew’ own momentum to put him off balance, just as they’d been taught. Keith didn’t much appreciate the attempt at a cheap shot, so he improvises by extending his leg, sending Matthews’ stumbling. He hits the mat with an almost comedic smack, paired with a yelp loud enough that all the surrounding pairs looks over at them. 

“Matthews!” Morris barks from the other side of the room, making sure that every other student also peers over in their direction, “Get off the floor and quit fooling around.” 

Slapping away the hands of a student offering assistance, he lifts himself up. His face is scrunched from anger, and almost as red as the mat he’d just kissed. Keith keeps his guard up for the rest of the lesson, but Matthews doesn’t try anything funny again, performing the technique as instructed with zero enthusiasm. 

As Keith changes out of his sport kit, he half expects another confrontation from Matthews, but he keeps to the opposite side of the changing room, the same pissed expression he’d worn for the rest of the class smacked onto his face. In contrast, Keith feels calm, more so than he has all week. His muscles ache but in a good way, his tiredness providing a sense of accomplishment rather than exhaustion from overwork.

His skin is sticky from the warmth of the gym and the workout, and he has no doubt that he doesn’t smell all to fresh thanks to it, but with nothing planned except returning to his room, Keith pulls on his cadet uniform, shoves his kit into his bag, and makes his way out of the changing rooms to shower back at the dorm. Or at least he tries. All of the halls in the main building look the same to Keith, even after being here for two weeks. Instead of finding himself at the door in the South Block which leads out towards the dormitories, he spots the instructor lounge up ahead, making it clear he’s come the wrong way. The reasons to hate this place seem to be piling up at a steady pace. With a quick glance around to check there is no one else in the hall, he casually turns back the way he came. 

A moment later, Keith sees Shiro turn round the corner, walking down the hall towards him, and he knows that Shiro sees him too. They both keep at the same pace and walk past one another without a word, nor even a second glance. It feels easier than it should be, but Keith is grateful for it, accepting that this is the best way to spend the next few years. Like this, despite the mess he’s been making of things lately, with a little luck, Keith might just be able to make it through the whole four years here. Who knows, perhaps he could even make something of himself. 


End file.
